The artist spent Sunday cleaning his brushes. It was a messy, tedious task, but it was his version of a religious rite. The blue of Tuesday’s sky and the red of Friday’s anger were washed down the drain in a swirl of gray water. Sunday was the eraser. It took the cluttered canvas of his life and sanded it down until the grit was gone. By the time the moon was high, he had a row of clean, white bristles standing like soldiers. He was ready. The week was gone, its colors stored in his memory, leaving his hands free to grab the palette of a Monday he hadn't imagined yet.